


love me, love me not

by elysieal (rosaire)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Body Horror, Pining, unrequited faaferu way in the background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24312238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosaire/pseuds/elysieal
Summary: How deep do the roots of your love grow?
Relationships: Belial/Lucilius (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48





	1. WHITE CACTUS FLOWER

**Author's Note:**

> earlier in January I thought to myself, 'haha hanahaki but it affects the entire body' and here we are
> 
> I don't normally write belifaa; this is actually my first time having them be the focus of a fic so take this as my first exploration of their dynamic through a more...bittersweet lens
> 
> there won't be a happy ending, but there won't be a sad ending :) take that as you will

Lucilius was born as a rose.

Seeded in the rich soil, nurtured by the radiant sunlight, intended to be perfect, beautiful. Except intention never yields fruition. He’s beautiful, yes, more than anything else in the hideous world, but his grace is curdled into rot by the imperfections that took root the moment he was plucked and cast aside.

Thorns. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Thin, muddled green spines, slithering over his skin, over every part of his body.

 _Don’t touch, don’t touch,_ they scream.

Belial’s never been the type to heed the warning signs. He’s always been the type to stick his hands where they don’t belong. When Lucilius pricks him once, twice, he bears the sting with a smile, and touches him with hands stained a beautiful blooming red.

_Worthless._

_Flawed._

_Nobody._

These are the names Lucilius has for Belial, and Belial wears them proudly, like badges of honor gleaming gold on his chest. He doesn’t dare, however, voice the question that arises every time Lucilius drives another thorn into his skin.

_“Do you mean me, or do you actually, somewhere deep inside, mean yourself?”_

Belial doesn’t ask not because he’s scared. No, not at all. He’d gladly have Lucilius carve him open while his heart’s still beating, and he’s still breathing, and his body’s still bleeding all over the table as various instruments separate him into what’s still useful, and what’s to be thrown into a ditch. In fact, he’d love nothing more.

No. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t care for the answer. He loves Lucilius and all of his thorns, dripping crimson with Belial’s own blood.

At least it’s Belial’s, and not Lucifer’s blood, that sullies Lucilius’ imperfection. At least Lucifer blinds himself with the silly notion of friendship, following in Lucilius’ lead like a lamb set up for slaughter. At least Lucifer is perfect, flawless, untouchable, a darling little lily, white as snow.

Belial waits for the day he can crush the lily under his boot.

—

It begins with white.

White, like Lucilius’ hair, brushing against his shoulders as he prepares himself for another day. White, like Lucilius’ robes, laid out on the bed as he pulls on the tight black bodysuit that outlines everything oh so nicely. White, like the sticky liquid on Belial’s hand, evidence of his sin after staring through the keyhole of Lucilius’ door on the other side.

He’s sure Lucilius knows. Belial isn’t exactly quiet about the way he moans out Lucilius’ name, feverish and desperate.

Lucilius doesn’t care. When it comes to Belial, he seldom does. He may whisper secrets into Belial’s mouth day and night, seeding the roots of their plan into his lungs, but trust is not to be mistaken for sentiment, so Lucilius says. But Belial doesn’t mind. When it comes to Lucilius, he seldom does. He may never have Lucilius gaze upon him as though he were the sun light miles away, but Belial will always, always be the moon just within reach.

Always.

Something swells in his lungs. It starts slow, quiet, thin needles snaking through tissue, taking root. Belial coughs, sputters, acutely aware of something crawling in his throat. It tickles against the fleshy walls, slithering along his larynx, weaving a path through his windpipe as he heaves for air.

He slaps his clean hand over his mouth. He hacks and he hacks, desperate to fill his lungs with air, doubled over against the door as something forces its way out of his throat. Lucilius hears everything but does nothing.

A cluster of petals spews from his mouth, spilling over his hand. Some stick between his fingers, others flutter onto the floor. He stares at them; they’re pure white, little yellow strings plastered to them with saliva. They stand stark against the black of his gloves, these pathetic little things, wrinkled and crumpled like feathers crushed within cruel hands.

Wordlessly, he finds the nearest washbasin, and rinses his hands clean of the white clinging to both hands.


	2. RED ZINNIA

Red follows in his stead.

Red, like his eyes dyed in the ruin of the Crimson Horizon, ripe with secrets that thrive in the torrid red glow. Red, like the ribbon whose lead he will always follow, slithering around Lucilius' thin, pale neck—a beautiful serpent perfect against his milky skin. Red, like the fruit Lucilius gorges himself on every morning and every evening, despite the prying eyes that scorn and scrutinize him from the shadows he never wanted any part of.

Canaan is a world of white. White in the halls, white in the clouds, white in the wings that follow Lucifer with every step. Belial finds it boring at times, a simple, empty color—except when it comes to Lucilius, of course. He loves the white of Lucilius’ hair, the white of his robes that drag across the marble floor. But he’s always preferred Lucilius in red.

He provides the fruit of Lucilius’ daily sustenance; picks it fresh every morning, presents it to him on a silver platter polished to perfection. He watches with a giddy smile as Lucilius lifts the plump fruit with precise fingers, and stains his pretty pink lips red with its succulent flesh. Neither of them ever pay any mind to the voices that whisper ills among themselves. They are insignificant. Inconsequential. 

All Belial can bring himself to care about is how lovely Lucilius looks like this, dressed in crimson, in scarlet, in blood.

When Lucilius calls for him one evening, Belial finds him in the lab wearing blood on the front of his robes. A discontent scowl mars his beauty, but Belial delights himself with the sight. He favors Lucilius’ displeasure. He favors it because he knows Lucilius will always call upon him to amend whatever mistake some other fool made.

“Cilius,” Belial greets coolly, hand raised in a casual gesture. "You called for me?"

“Mm,” is the reply he receives. Cold, distant, just how Belial likes it. “I expected your arrival sooner.”

Belial chuckles. “Did you? Ah, pardon me, I didn't mean to keep you on the edge. I ran into a little friend and decided to stop for a quick ch—”

“I don't recall asking for an excuse.” Lucilius’ grip on his spear tightens, and if it weren’t for the black gloves sticking to his skin, his knuckles would be whiter than bone. “I need you to take care of a nuisance. A primal responded poorly to a series of tests and went berserk. It maimed its sister beast—” 

He gestures to his soiled clothing, still dripping with sticky, fresh violence. “—and flew off somewhere to the north. It’s wounded, so it couldn’t have traveled very far. Therefore I order you to find it. Exterminate it. It's useless with its mind in such a pitiful state of disarray.”

“Oh?” Belial grins. He presents his next question not out of genuine interest, but out of an inane curiosity to hear Lucilius’ response. “Did Cifer say no to dirtying his pretty little hands?”

Lucilius shoots him a glare. “Lucifer is on another mission. Besides, why would I need to ask him, when you’ve no issue dirtying your hands all the same? If you think yourself incompetent for such a menial task, then leave. I'll entrust someone else who doesn't think to question orders.”

Chuckling, Belial holds his hands up defensively. “Ah, ah, I was only curious. I’d be happy to dabble in some bloodplay for you, Cilius.”

“Then get to it.”

“Of course, of course.”

Belial turns and smiles to himself. A thousand drops of blood he’s shed, not just from himself but from countless others, and a thousand more he will gladly spill. All for Lucilius.

Only for Lucilius.

He finds the deranged primal skulking around on a lonely, little island, not too far from Canaan’s vast empire. It's an unfinished beast, some kind of prototype; its proportions are off, all gangly limbs, sagging skin, and wings too thin and flimsy to support flight for long. Its face only has a few slits for a mouth and eyes, and its voice is an undeveloped smattering of guttural sounds. It’s hideous, it’s repulsive, but Lucilius crafted this atrocity with his lovely hands.

And thus, Belial loves this broken beast for every little thing that makes it so tragic.

It attacks him the moment it detects his presence, but its movements are haphazard, uncoordinated. He evades each swipe of its claws with an airy laugh. He could kill it right now with one blow, but something about watching its pathetic struggle is somewhat...riveting. It wants to live, despite its broken state, despite the fact that it was only given life to serve the role of a tool. It wants to break from the restraints forced upon it by the cold, cruel hands of fate that demanded it so. An admirable thing, really. Belial can’t fault the beast for craving so much more than what it’s been given.

To be born as a beast. To then die as a beast. An unjust existence, and yet, there is no one to deliver justice.

_ Not one except him, _ he reminds himself.

He entertains the beast until it stumbles and gasps for air. He doesn’t wait for it to lower its guard when he sends a manifested blade through its chest; red spews from its mouth and drips onto the grass. A laugh begins to dance along his tongue, but then his stomach lurches into his throat and his breath hitches sharply.

Like before, it starts small, quiet. But instead of needles, it’s a heavy mass weighing in the pit of his stomach. It grows little by little, blooming wide until it fills every crevice. It weighs inside of him like a coil of chains shackling him to the earth, binding his wings so that he may never take flight again.

In its dying agony, the beast delivers one last plea: a single slash, clean across Belial’s stomach. It rips through fabric and skin and muscle, but he doesn’t bleed and his guts don’t gush out in a wet heap. Instead, a flurry of red feathery petals spills out, fluttering onto the blood-soaked earth, and a passing breeze sweeps them away.

Belial presses a hand to his wound and laughs, thinking to himself, oh, how lovely Lucilius would look dressed in bleeding petals. He’s always looked better in red.


	3. YELLOW ROSE

Yellow looms over him.

Yellow, like the gold embroidered into the hoods of the Council, casting shadows over their rigid faces as their lips spin strings of vitriol to choke Lucilius with. Yellow, like the cascading hair of the man who follows—watches—Lucilius’ every move, no different than a predator stalking its prey through the night. Yellow, like the beams of light that pierce through the clouds, called into existence by the sonorous voice of the one and only Supreme Primarch.

Belial hates each and every one of these things. He’s never been fond of the yellow in the garden, either, those blooming sunflowers and daffodils that the Supreme Primarch’s favorite pet tends to every morning. He watches him spend hours upon hours meticulously watering and trimming every single flower.

“You sure have a thing for those flowers, don’t you, Sandy?” Belial drawls out.

The seraph jolts up. He throws a glare over his shoulder, an exasperated sigh heaving out from his lips. “What does it matter to you?” he questions.

“Oh, nothing. I just never took you for the soft vanilla type, that’s all,” Belial coos. He leans against the carved pillar, partly hidden by the shade. He’s never been fond of stepping out into the light—it’s too bright for his tastes. “If you ask me, you’d look much better thrusting your sword into things, getting all nice and wet. Don’t you think so?”

Disgust distorts Sandalphon’s face, and his eyes narrow sharply. “I rather you not pester me with your foul words today, _Belial_. I’m, frankly, not in the mood to deal with you.”

“Ooh, someone’s pent up. Didn’t get your fill of Lucifer for the day?”

This time, pink flushes Sandalphon’s cheeks, and he turns away to cup one of the flowers; a rose, Belial notes. “...Not yet,” he mumbles.

“Not yet? Oho, I didn’t think Lucifer was into edging.” Belial grins in response to Sandalphon’s scowl. “Calm down, calm down. Listen, I’ll do you a favor. I’ll go find ole’ Cifer and send him your way, how does that sound?”

“How uncharacteristically altruistic of you,” Sandalphon mutters, barely loud enough for Belial to hear.

“Nah, it’s not that. I just think it’s pathetic seeing you on your knees for a garden, when I’m sure you would _much_ rather be doing it for him.”

“You’re repulsive.”

“But I’m right.”

“Whatever. Do as you please.” Sandalphon waves him off. “You already do anyway. I don’t understand why the Head Researcher hasn’t tightened his leash on you yet. You’re a wild dog in need of some taming.”

Belial outright laughs. Oh, he never thought Lucifer’s pet could have so much bite. That pretty little face certainly deceives, in all the best of ways. “You and I both. Damn, I’d love to be a dog, just for Cilius.”

“Leave, Belial. _Now_.”

Having had his fun, Belial flashes Sandalphon a smirk before sending himself on his way. He knows exactly where Lucifer is; he hadn’t been lying about retrieving him, but he hadn’t exactly been honest as to the reason. Frankly, he doesn’t care if Sandalphon spends time with Lucifer or not. That’s their problem, not his. They could kiss or argue or fuck like wild animals in front of him for all he cares.

No. What matters to him is Lucifer spending time with _Lucilius_. My friend this, my friend that. Always planting himself beside Lucilius no matter the occasion, as though he belongs, deserves to be by his side. Belial despises everything that Lucifer is—beauty, perfection, ignorance. Devoid of thorns, Lucifer would never dare to harm the undeserving. He would sooner lay down his own life for the sake of the world he was created to nurture, and he would never even dare to ask for something in return.

Free of desire. Free of sin. Free of the flaws that otherwise entwine Lucilius within a cage of bloody thorns.

He makes Belial sick.

Just as anticipated, Belial finds Lucifer at Lucilius’ study, sitting on the examination table with his wings stretching out from his bare back. Lucilius stands behind him, running thin fingers down Lucifer’s spine, then along the curve of each wing.

“No tension,” Lucilius observes, briefly glancing up to see Belial walk in without so much as an announcement. “But, if you continue to feel intermittent discomfort, allow yourself to soak in a hot bath every few days. You exert yourself continuously, and while you have the endurance and stamina to do so, your body and performance would benefit greatly from consistent rest.”

Lucifer gives a slow nod. “I understand. I will act according to your suggestion, my friend.” He acknowledges Belial with a courteous nod, always so formal. “Is there anything else you require of me?”

“No. Not for now.” Lucilius walks to stand in front of him. He slides his hands along either side of Lucifer’s jaw, pressing his fingertips against both pulse points. “Your vitals are sound. As expected, there is nothing to raise concern about.”

 _Of course,_ Belial thinks to himself as he watches. _Because he’s perfect._

He expects Lucilius to dismiss Lucifer any moment now, but much to his chagrin, Lucilius does nothing of the sort. Instead, he continues to stand there, his fingers roaming across every line and curve of Lucifer’s face. Lucifer sits there, complacent. He is naive to the fact that this is no longer a physical examination.

But Belial knows. He always has.

He swallows back the bile bubbling in his throat, and wills himself to speak. “Cilius.”

Lucilius’ hands still. His brows furrowing, he turns to face Belial, displeasure written in the scowl of his thin lips. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing much, it’s just ole’ Sandy’s been looking for Lucifer, that’s all,” Belial drawls out, nonchalant.

At the sound of Sandalphon’s nickname, Lucifer’s eyes brighten and his feathers ruffle softly. If it had been anyone else, Belial would find the reaction adorable, but because this is Lucifer, he just finds it annoying.

As for Lucilius… Well, one can only describe the darkening of his eyes as something far more...virulent. “And? His desires do not precede protocol,” he spits. “He can wait. He cannot possibly have anything of such utmost important that would require Lucifer’s immediate presence.”

Lucifer looks at Lucilius with those soft, serene eyes; Belial seethes within. “My friend, if I may, Sandalphon is simply concerned about my wellbeing in light of my frequent absence. If only you would allow me t—”

“No,” Lucilius interjects swiftly. “I’m not yet done with you.” He throws a glare to Belial. “In fact, I’ve been significantly delayed by an unauthorized intrusion.”

Belial clicks his tongue and grins. “Now, now, I meant no offense.” He leans against the desk, palms braced against the edge. “No need to shoot the messenger.”

“No, but I will instruct the messenger to deliver a reply.”

“Oh? And that is…?”

“Exactly what I said,” Lucilius says. He’s always been blunt, to the point. He doesn’t care for softening his tongue for the sensibilities of others, their feelings never on the list of his priorities. “And I expect you to deliver it right now.”

“Right now?”

“Has your hearing gone bad?”

“Maybe it has, maybe it hasn’t. Maybe I’m in need of an examination too.”

Lucilius’ face doesn’t so much as crack. “Belial?”

“Yes, Cilius?” Belial asks with a charming smile.

“Out. Now.”

“Of course, Cilius.”

He leaves without another word. As he walks down the corridor, prepared to gleefully ruin Sandalphon’s day even more, he tries to ignore the nausea churning his stomach raw. His fingers ghost over his pristine jacket, where the fabric hides the newly stitched scar across his stomach. Lucilius hadn’t questioned what had happened. He had simply stabbed the needle through and muttered something unintelligible under his breath as delicate hands worked across roughened skin.

And yet, no matter how much Lucilius hates that Belial will never be Lucifer, Belial will always love Lucilius for that very same reason. He will love him today, tomorrow, until the end of everything that never even mattered in the first place.

For Lucilius, he’ll uproot the seed of existence itself.

He stops when he sees Sandalphon sitting at the garden table, two cups of coffee set out before him. The blooming vines entangled around the white gazebo dangle over his head, and the bushes overflowing with color surround him on every side. He looks peaceful, hopeful.

Belial envies him. Just a bit. What’s it like, he wonders, to be able to wait and know, no matter what, that the one you long for will come? What’s it like, he wonders, to look upon them as though they are the stars, and then they look upon you as though you are the whole universe?

What’s it like, he wonders?

The bile rises. It stings, eroding away at him from within, leaving his insides raw. It seeps into his veins, curdling his blood with venom. It pumps into his heart, searing it until it hangs heavy with black scars.

Then he feels them. One-by-one, ripping through his arteries and ensnaring his heart in a sharp, vice grip. They burrow their way in between layers of muscle, entangling with veins as they go. They slither beneath the surface of his thin skin, and prick and prod until tiny spines carve themselves free from red, stringy flesh.

Thorns. So many little yellow thorns. They line the expanse of his arms, his legs, tearing through cloth to make themselves known. Each thorn begins to bud, knots of yellow threatening to bloom and envelop his body.

Sandalphon doesn’t notice. He’s too busy wandering in his own world.

Belial can’t help but smile. He whisks himself away, where no one will follow, and rips each budding thorn out of his skin, one-by-one. They wither in the fading light of the sunset, yellow rusting to gold before the petals can even breathe.


	4. BLACK RICE LILY

It crescendos with black.

Black, like the cover of the night when the moon and stars are out of sight, out of reach, never to be grasped by the ones that aspire to be among them. Black, like vials of ink spilled across ivory white parchments, tainting their knowledge with frustration and despair. Black, like the tendrils of void matter coiling within glass jars, demanding to be freed, to taste the air and soil it with the stench of chaos.

Belial always finds comfort in these things. The discordance, the unrest. The deviation from the light into the concealment of the night. Under the sun, all is exposed, left to be scrutinized. But under the moon, secrets sleep undisturbed, whispers weave themselves into the silence, never to be heard.

In the dark, he keeps Lucilius to himself, away from the bringer of the dawn.

He watches Lucilius pace around the room, bathed in the argent glow of the moon. He listens to him preach the dark scripture, each word one renunciation after another. His lips give shape to the unholy anthem of their grand finale, the dissonant orchestra set to herald the end.

Lucilius is the shepherd of the lost sheep abandoned to the wolves, and Belial is the lone wolf who shall follow.

The sermon ends. Lucilius beckons Belial close. Their eyes meet—ice and flame. They are both destruction incarnate, two edges of the same blade. They will cleave through the fertile earth and rend the sky into scattered pieces. They will bring about eternal void to a world nauseatingly bright with color.

Words pass between them without sound. Then, Belial’s hands are on Lucilius, unraveling layers upon layers of fabric. He strips him down to the root, exposing every petal and every thorn. He sweeps him into his arms, lays him upon the bed, and descends upon warm flesh.

The wolf partakes in the shepherd. He buries himself deep, sinks teeth and claw alike into skin and bone. He slakes his thirst with the blood that runs sweet over his lips and tongue, staining them crimson. He pays no mind to the pain that pricks through him as the name of another falls in a breath from the shepherd’s lips in reverence.

It is not the first time, and it will not be the last.

Lucilius throws his head back in shuddering ecstasy; his body speaks its latent truths on behalf of his cold tongue. He will never, ever, lend his voice to the pleasure that sears through the pit of his stomach. He will never, ever, sing the hymns of love, of desire, of everything in between. He will only ever speak the name he cannot have.

He is callous. He is ice. He is the cold-blooded serpent that slithers down Belial’s spine, fanning the flames, the hunger.

The rapture peaks. Lucilius carves his nails down Belial’s back. He scrapes the skin away, rips angry, red marks until blood stains his fingers. Again, and again. He engraves his rage, his regret, his repudiation of the world and of love into the reliquary of Belial’s body. And Belial accepts it all willingly.

Lucilius sows the seeds of his hatred into the rich soil of Belial’s flesh. Belial nurtures these seeds with his blood, his sweat, his tears. They germinate inside of him like all the other little beautiful, ugly things his body conceives.

In return, Belial fills Lucilius with the warmth he lost long ago.

He withdraws from Lucilius upon the end of their ritual. He gives him a smile, but Lucilius only stares at him, his face vacant.

“...Say it again.”

“Say what again?”

Lucilius presses a bloodstained finger to Belial’s lips. Belial’s tongue darts out and laps the bitter iron. “The only thing you said.”

“Ah.” Belial chuckles softly. “That must’ve slipped out. Oops.”

“Say it again.”

Belial’s heart beats loud in his chest. It drowns out the hiss of the roots burrowing through his muscle.

He repeats the words.

Lucilius frowns. The roots ensnare the column of Belial’s spine. “Tomorrow,” he begins in a sharp voice, cutting the tender air, “come to the lab for an examination.”

“Oh? Well, if you insist.”

Lucilius pushes Belial away, forces himself onto his feet to gather his robes. He says nothing as he disappears into the adjacent room for a wash.

Belial only chuckles. He settles into the sheets, into the warmth left behind by such a cold body, and breathes in the aroma of roses.

The roots bloom. Rapidly, they birth themselves, sucking out nutrients from blood and bone. He feels them. They drain him with each passing second. They carve a path to his primal core, entrapping it within a cage of roots.

The roots tighten, tighten, _tighten._ The core cracks. His wings rip out from his back in a burst of blood and black petals.

Except these wings are not his. Instead of the leathery wings he wears so proudly, enormous black petals mimicking their shape take their place. They flutter in the cold air, curling outward from the tips. What a beautifully horrendous mutation.

Belial angles his head back to stare at them with an inquisitive gaze, a mischievous smile. Oh, how wondrous, this development. First the white petals, then the red ones, and the yellow ones, and now these.

Like the others, he will be rid of these petals too.

Pressing his face into the sheets, into the scent of roses, he reaches behind himself and digs his fingers into the base of the first wing. He pushes them into the open, bleeding wound, squelching through flesh until he finds the root. He pinches it between his nails, and rips it from where it has bound itself.

He does not scream. He does not weep. He simply lets the bloodied wing fall to the ground.

He performs the same with the second wing. The third. The fourth. The fifth. The sixth. He plucks each and every petal out of his flesh until there is nothing left but the stem curled around his spine.

Blood pours from his back. It stains the sheets not with red, but with black.

Lucilius watches from the shadows.


End file.
